


An Irrational Placement of Spices

by shyday



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 02:12:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2564495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shyday/pseuds/shyday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s still weird, rifling through a stranger’s kitchen cabinets." Preseries. Written for hurt/comfort bingo at LiveJournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Irrational Placement of Spices

**Author's Note:**

> More of the same from me. This started as a couple of scenes I wasn’t going to bother with after I opted to write “Papaya” instead, but I’ve got a new hurt/comfort bingo card with squares that can’t be filled using previously published stuff. So I decided to flesh them out anyway, and much to my surprise there evolved something that almost hints at a resemblance to plot. (Don’t get too excited. It’s not much. If you’re sick of what I’ve been doing, I doubt you’ll like this one either.) The prompt here is "mild illness," and it’s set again preseries. Which is rapidly becoming my favorite part of this show.
> 
> A few references to my other Luli fic, "Leap Before You Look," but it’s not necessary to have read that first. Cranky!Reddington, and something maybe too close to domesticity. I make no money, because they don’t belong to me.

The fan of the playing cards in her hands blocks her grin; her breath bounces back moist and hot off their laminate faces. Dembe’s eyes narrow, probably catching the smile in her eyes. Luli doesn’t care. She’s got him this time.

 

It’s been nearly a year now. Almost exactly. Three weeks from today makes an entire year she’s been travelling with them. She’s been aware of the coming date for months now, secretly circling it on her mental calendar. She’d expected to be the only one who noticed, time being somewhat fluid when you’re living your life off society’s grid. And that would have been okay.

 

But Raymond had surprised her, as even after all these months with him he still continues to do. Not only remembering, but telling her to choose where the anniversary was to be spent. _Wherever you want._ An echo that stretched over a year.

 

California, she’d said, having not yet seen the Pacific Ocean. San Diego, he’d suggested. As far south as they could go.

 

That had been two days ago, and the last conversation lasting more than four words that she’s had with him since then. Dembe either, far as she can tell. Raymond’s been keeping himself scarce, spending most of his waiting behind the master bedroom’s closed door. From the expression on his face the few times she’s seen him, he’s clearly in some sort of a mood.

 

She _thinks_ they’re waiting, anyway. Even after a year, she’s still surrounded by too many murmured conversations and careful, meaningful glances. Left behind more often than not, hanging around with forced patience for them to return from meetings she’s told nothing about. It’s an issue of protection over trust, she’s pretty sure. But that doesn’t make her hate it any less.

 

Waiting. Because a few days ago Raymond and Dembe had gone out. It had been late; they’d only just arrived at the safehouse they’d driven half a day in the rain to get to. Neither of the men had volunteered their destination, and after a year she’d stopped bothering to ask. The storm had knocked out the power about an hour after they’d left; she’d sat alone in the deep shadows of their unfamiliar shelter for at least an hour more, listening to the rain throw itself against the windows and watching the street for any sign of their having come back. There’d been a thick tension circling them when they finally did. Their confusion at finding her sitting in the dark had barely dissipated it.

 

And now they’ve been doing nothing. For days. There were few short phone calls yesterday, usually a sign that something’s up. Not that anyone would discuss it with her. Those had been the only moments she’d seen Raymond yesterday at all, she now realizes, and most of those just glimpses through a half open door. She’d been too caught up in trying to be cool, to pretend like she didn’t care what was going on. Like she wasn’t somehow already involved just by being here.

 

Dembe smiles widely, throws three more jellybeans into the pile in the center of the table. They’d looked to the kitchen first, for something suitable to use as betting money, but the best they’d come up with had been mini chocolate chips. It was a quick mutual decision that they’d be a melted mess by the end of the game. The jellybeans had been closer, rainbow-colored and plastic-looking in a bowl sitting on the side table by the wall. No contest, really.

 

It’s still weird, rifling through a stranger’s kitchen cabinets. Not as much as it used to be, not like that first big drafty mansion where she’d been scared to so much as sit down. Now there was an element of discovery to it, a Christmas morning kind of anticipation. _What’d we get this time?_ Of course, she didn’t get to keep any of the treasures, the oddities she sometimes found – most of them still technically belonged to other people. And the three of them certainly didn’t always stay in mansions. This little apartment being a good example. But when they did, Raymond insisted things be treated with respect. They may be temporarily making themselves at home here, but this is not their home.  

 

She doesn’t need any of this stuff anyway. Not anymore.

 

She’d wanted to see the places in her travel magazines, and he’s already taken her to more of them than she’d ever dared hope to visit. Their trips are sporadic, circumstance factoring heavily into direction and duration. Mostly just Europe so far, after a month in the US, but there’s been talk of them getting a jet. She can’t even imagine how much that’s going to cost.

 

Not that she gives it much thought. She doesn’t have to, not with them. She can’t truly remember what it feels like to be _hungry_ anymore – they’ve had a few lean times, missed a few meals, but it’s never been as bad as she knows it can get. She’s lost the visceral memory of that sensation, that sick hollow weakness. Her mind striving to heal her, by wrapping it in a distancing woolen fog.

 

There’s a crash from the other room, followed by a string of muffled syllables that can only be cursing from the shape of their sound. Dembe’s already half out of his chair before he pauses, his fingers resting on the face down cards on the table. He reconsiders, retakes his seat and picks up his hand. He doesn’t look at her. Or the door.

 

Luli too is thinking of the last time this happened, sometime last night when they’d been watching that movie. A couple of random thuds from the master bedroom, loud enough to cut through the dialogue on screen. A noise that was definitely something hitting the wall. Dembe had been up immediately to investigate, but it was obvious even from the couch that his presence was far from welcome. She’s rarely heard Raymond shout like that. Not at Dembe, for sure. Dembe hadn’t said anything – she hadn’t expected him to – but he’d found something to do in the kitchen for a while after Raymond had slammed the door between them. Most of the movie had been over by the time he’d come back.

 

So no surprise that he’s hesitant to go in there now. Luli watches him over the top of her cards. She doesn’t turn around when the bedroom door opens into the living room behind her.

 

Dembe’s eyes flick past her. Back to his cards. She can hear Raymond moving toward the kitchen. Luli doubts she’s imagining the rigidity in the way Dembe’s sitting there, how badly he wants to get up. In an effort to distract him, she overdoes her grin as she lays her hand on the table.

 

“Three fours.” He’d dealt her the last one; she’d been ready to bluff with two. She needs this hand. Her pile of jellybeans is dwindling dangerously low.

 

“Fives,” Dembe counters, putting his own cards down. Luli lets her jaw drop comically. Dembe doesn’t notice; his eyes are on the archway leading into the kitchen. They can hear what sounds like a search, the banging of cabinets vehemently closed.

 

Dembe’s attention falls back to her. Luli shrugs. He can do what he wants. _She’s_ definitely not going in there.

 

“Honestly, who keeps their _pepper_ in with the _canned_ _goods_?” comes a yell from the kitchen. Disproportionately angry, in Luli’s opinion.

 

Nope. Definitely not going in there.

 

But Dembe appears willing to brave it. He uses a big arm to scoop up the jellybeans from the center of the table, sliding them into his pile; he gives her a pointed look, one that clearly warns her not to touch. Luli’s not scared of him. She proves this by sticking out her tongue. Dembe gets up, and she’d swear he’s bracing himself. He doesn’t look at her again as he heads off into the kitchen.

 

More banging. Now Dembe’s voice, unflappable. “What are you looking for?” She can see his back from here; he blocks most of the doorway where he leans, arms crossed, against the curved frame. She can’t hear Raymond’s response. Luli shifts around in the thin wooden chair until she’s facing the kitchen, rests her chin on folded arms across its top. With no view of anything else, she watches the muscles of Dembe’s shoulders.

 

A twitch, but just a tiny one. “Raymond,” Dembe says, still patient, “you are destroying the kitchen.”

 

This time she catches the words _pepper_ , _madman_. The slamming of drawers.

 

“Perhaps I have seen –“

 

“If I’d wanted your help I’d have asked for it.” The shoulder jumps again.

 

Now a new crash, the shattering of glass on a tile floor. Dembe’s arms fall; he straightens up in the doorway. Luli watches him take a step forward, before his progress is impeded by Raymond pushing past him to get out of the kitchen.

 

“Leave it alone,” Raymond growls on his way by. “I’ll deal with it.”

 

He crosses the room to the table where she sits; Luli scrambles back around before he drops into the chair beside her. His eyes are bloodshot, and he has the look of a man who’s just gotten up, despite the fact that it’s now nearly noon. Dressed for the day, but with his collared shirt untucked and unbuttoned over the white tee he wears underneath. _Rumpled_ is the word that comes to mind. She doesn’t remember the last time she’s seen him so – Prague, maybe. When they’d had to run in the middle of the night.

 

Raymond props his elbow on the table, resting the bridge of his nose against the heel of his upturned hand. Behind her, she can hear Dembe moving around in the kitchen. The _whisk_ of a broom and the tinkling of tiny glass silvers. Luli studies Raymond’s profile, her thoughts now straying toward lunch. She reaches over and plucks a jellybean from Dembe’s abandoned pile.

 

Buttered popcorn. She almost spits it out.

 

She chews quickly, swallows with a grimace. From the other room floats the sound of plastic against metal, the dustpan knocking on the trashcan. She expects Dembe to reemerge. Pops another candy in her mouth before he does.

 

Coconut. Better.

 

But Dembe seems to have found something else to do, and looking at Raymond she doesn’t blame him. There’s a prickly aura about the man, the sense of an animal with defenses bared and ready. Luli’s fingers snake over and grab a third jellybean – three for luck – and she tosses it into her mouth without looking. Mashing its sweetness over her tongue, she tries to determine its flavor.

 

She hasn’t gotten that far when Raymond turns, twisting his neck so that he can see her without lifting his head from his hand. His entire face is taking part in his frown. “What?” It splits the air between them like the crack of a whip.

 

Luli’s not afraid of Raymond, either. She reminds herself of this just after she flinches.

 

He notices; his face almost instantly softens. Luli swallows around the mashed sugar that’s become dry and weighted in her mouth. Mango, she thinks.

 

“Sorry,” he says. His mouth works for a few moments more as he blinks at her. This is closer to the Raymond she knows; Luli gives him a smile. She gets a ghosted echo in return before he shifts to again support his forehead on his hand.

 

Movement at the edge of her sight; Dembe going from the kitchen through to the living room, into the master bedroom and back. The second time he appears with a towel, and a bottle of something liquid. Luli watches him vanish into the other room with his supplies.

 

Minutes tick by. Raymond isn’t moving. Luli picks up the deck of cards, adds Dembe’s winning hand to hers and the rest. She shuffles a few times before dealing herself a game of solitaire. A frustrating exercise. All of the face-up cards are black, and the game ends quickly as she works her way through the deck for want of a red.

 

She’s dealing another hand when Dembe returns to the room. He stands beside the table, not reclaiming his empty chair. “Are you hungry?”

 

Luli chooses to decide this is being addressed to both of them; she nods enthusiastically. Dembe cooks most of their meals when they don’t go out, and – while she’s happy simply to be eating so regularly, no matter what – his skill with food is starting to leave her feeling positively spoiled. He’d gone shopping yesterday, she knows. She only saw some of the goodies he’d brought back.

 

Raymond grunts without lifting his head. It’s not obvious if this is a yes or a no. “I told you to leave it,” he says instead, his voice low and rumbling.

 

Dembe doesn’t bother to feign innocence. “It was no trouble.”

 

“Perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself.” Still irritated. Spiky. If somewhat muffled by the long sleeve covering his arm. Dembe shrugs, but Raymond doesn’t see it. Luli wonders if the younger man’s walking out of the room because he doesn’t think he can win the brewing argument, or just because he doesn’t want to have it at all.

 

_Argument_. That’s definitely what this feels like, and it’s all the more unsettling with its unfamiliarity. She doesn’t think her brain has offered up the word in this context before. But then, Raymond’s not generally this grumpy. Usually things are on such an even keel between them that sometimes she has to resist the urge to run through their rooms screaming, just to try and create a disturbance. The strange atmosphere gives rise to an anxiety the situation doesn’t really merit, her recently lulled nerves hyperactive after disuse.

 

She thinks about getting up, going to see if Dembe wants help preparing lunch. She moves a partial string of cards onto another. Steals glances at Raymond in between flipping through the stack in her hand.

 

Carefully, of course. She has no desire to get snapped at again.

 

He’s paying no attention to her, and eventually she gets up and wanders into the kitchen. Her eyes scan the counters for an obvious absence, trying to guess what it was that had broken. She isn’t certain, but she thinks there may have been four of those tall canisters in the corner.

 

“Need help?” Luli asks Dembe’s back, when he doesn’t turn to see who’s entered. She’s certain he knows it’s her anyway.

 

“No,” he says, from his spot by the stove. “But I would value the company.”

 

Good enough. She takes a seat on one of the high stools by the marble center island, feeling a little smug at having found someone who wants her in the room.

 

He’s making orange chicken; the sweet tartness of the sauce tickles at her nose. Her stomach gurgles in anticipation. She remembers the pastrami sandwich Raymond gave her, that first day they met. Even though she knows that it’s her in the memory pictures, she can’t recall the desperation she’s sure she must have felt. Luli lets the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth spread over the whole of her face.

 

It’s a beautiful thing, not being hungry.

 

She squashes it after a second, feeling a bit of an idiot even if no one’s looking. She fills the silence instead. “So… what was that about?” It isn’t a question she would have asked a year ago. It’s barely a question she gets out now.

 

He stirs the chicken, the rice. “Nothing. A spilled drink.”

 

An unsatisfying answer, made more so by the impermeably level delivery. “But what’s his problem?”

 

It sounds churlish and childish and Luli immediately wishes she could pull it back. Dembe ignores her, continuing his cooking.

 

“I mean, he seems like he’s in a really bad mood.” This doesn’t do much to make anything better. She doesn’t know why she’s still talking. “What happened in here, anyway?”

 

It takes a moment before he decides to answer. She thinks about all the different kitchens she’s sat in like this, sets that change around him while this view of his back remains the same. “An accident,” Dembe finally says. “He was looking for something to clean up the spill.”

 

_Yeah, but why’s he so mad at you?_

 

She can’t ask this. Not even now.

 

Luli watches the shifting of the muscles under his t-shirt, sitting in silence until the cooking is finished. She jumps down from the stool to get them plates; it takes two tries before she finds them. All too often these rooms and their contents overlap. It’s difficult to remember where she is when she’s searching for something.

 

They carry the food out to the table. Raymond glances up when they approach, even gives a tight smile. “Ah. Excellent.” It sounds a little forced.

 

Dembe hands him a plate; Raymond doesn’t break eye contact as he takes it, sets it down. “Forgive me, my friend. A headache, exacerbated by clumsiness and an irrational placement of spices. Unfair of me to take it out on you.”

 

The other man inclines his head in acknowledgement, and they begin to eat. Luli can’t help but notice that, despite his showy savoring of the food’s aroma when he first turned to face it, Raymond’s doing little more than just moving the items around his plate. It’s a dull lunch, mainly without conversation. But delicious, in Luli’s opinion, and she finishes well before the other two.

 

“No word from Acevedo?” Raymond asks. Luli doesn’t have any idea who this is. Dembe shakes his head. “Always with the dramatics,” Raymond sighs. “Wants to wait as long as possible before his big moment. So tiresome.”

 

Luli grins into her water glass; she _knew_ they were waiting for something. It gives her a tiny thrill of pride to recognize it. A warm flush that comes from being a part of this group. Now she just has to work on getting to the point where they’ll tell her what they’re waiting _for_.

 

Raymond rubs at his left arm, just above the elbow. Luli sees it because Dembe does; she catches the moment on his face. She recalls now that Raymond had seemed to be protecting that arm when they’d come back the other night, the white of the handkerchief pressed against his sleeve bright even in the shadows of the blackout. She’d forgotten about it with the imbalance of the unexpected darkness, when he didn’t mention it again. Not that she probably would have asked anyway. It wasn’t the first time they’d returned bruised and battered, and rarely did she get a straight answer.

 

“It still bothers you,” Dembe says. It’s not a question.

 

Raymond shrugs, drops his hand. “Sore.” He goes back to poking at his food. Frowns. “I’ve _told_ Flavin he needs to take better care of his knives. No one takes pride in the tools of their profession anymore.”

 

Flavin? Yet another name she doesn't recognize. And "knives" doesn't sound good, no matter how casually Raymond shapes it. “What happened?”

 

She hadn’t really meant to ask that, and his response reminds her why. “There’s a museum I want to take you to while we’re here,” he says, apropos of nothing. “Local superstition, curses, talismans – that sort of thing. Truly _fascinating_ treasures. Room after room of them.”

 

“Sure.” Luli’s gaze flicks past him to Dembe across the table. Back to Raymond, who’s still watching her like he’s waiting for something else. “Sounds interesting.”

 

“Wonderful little trinkets.” He spears a piece of chicken with his fork, eyeing it critically. “I once spent a long evening in Zimbabwe with a sangoma, discussing the many drawbacks of Western medicine. Man had a _marvelous_ singing voice. Whatever we were drinking had me seeing double for a week.”

 

He brings the fork up to his mouth. Swallows hard and sets it down without taking a bite.

 

Raymond pushes the plate toward the center of the table, his tone now bright and distracting. “Tomorrow or the next day. We’ll see when they’re open.”

 

Dembe gets up, collecting plates. He looks to Raymond before he takes his. “You are finished?”

 

“Mmm. It would seem I’m not quite as hungry as I’d hoped. But thank you.”

 

Dembe doesn’t look pleased, but he removes the full plate of food with the other two. Raymond rubs at his forehead with his fingertips. Luli thinks he’s lost some of the color in his face.

 

His free hand finds hers on the table, covering it with his own. “So – San Diego,” he says, not looking up. “Miles and miles of beaches. World famous zoo. And rightfully so.”

 

She’s never been to a zoo. There’d been one in Prague, but they’d left the city before they’d been able to go. “Pandas?” Luli loves pandas. She’s been secretly hoping they’ll go to China, solely for this reason.

 

Her escaped enthusiasm gets her a small smile, a squeeze of her hand. “Pandas. We’ll make a day of it.”

 

Raymond releases her, leaning forward to rest his forehead on the smooth surface of the table. She doesn’t know what to do with this new development; her eyes bounce between the kitchen door and the top of his head. After a few minutes, Dembe reappears. He frowns at Raymond. At her. Luli shakes her head. The last person to ask what’s going on.

 

“Raymond?”

 

“Hmmm?”

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Writing my memoirs.” Some of the peevish edge has crept back into his voice; he doesn’t lift his head, and his lips are just inches from brushing the wood. “So much easier, I find, without all the distractions.”

 

Luli doesn’t know what to do with this unusual fit of snark, and it seems like Dembe doesn’t either. “Raymond…”

 

“Dembe, you know I adore you. But my mother was a far lovelier woman than you could ever aspire to be. A headache. Leave me alone.”

 

Dembe’s face is a mask, but Luli’s pretty sure that her own expression is surprised enough for both of them. She can’t understand why he’s so irritable – maybe he’s got a headache, but the day she’d met him he’d taken a bullet to the shoulder and he still managed to be perfectly civil. Overly so - friendly. It certainly seems like this is a minor thing, compared to the pain he must have been in then.

 

She doesn’t understand men, not really. Maybe this will change as she gets older.

 

Raymond uses both arms to push himself up from the table. “Let me know when Acevedo gets in contact.” Dembe eyes track him as he leaves the room.

 

The afternoon passes with the speed of a dying clock. Luli finds a book of short stories by someone called Jonathan Carroll, and curls up on the sofa. She’s lost in it. Dembe spends a few hours reading in a chair beside her, but at some point he gets up and leaves the room. She has no idea how he choses to spend the bulk of the day.

 

Raymond doesn’t reappear to join them for dinner; a mistake, in Luli’s opinion, because Dembe’s making hamburgers. The smell of the meat cooking pulls her from her book like cartoon tendrils of scent. But it doesn’t attract Raymond, and the door to the bedroom is still closed by the time Dembe brings the plates out of the kitchen. Only two, she notices, as if he’d known Raymond wasn’t going to eat with them. Luli can’t help a glance toward the living room before she digs into her food. It’s not the first time he’s shut himself away for hours at a time, but he usually makes a point of being with them for meals.

 

She’s not going to let it spoil her dinner, though. Hardly. She closes her eyes as she swallows the first delicious bite. Salty and substantial, and spiced just the way she likes it. If Dembe ever left them, she’s not sure what she’d do.

 

She opens her eyes to find him grinning at her, a blush rising quickly to her cheeks. She covers her embarrassment by taking another bite, sticking her tongue out covered in disgusting mush. Dembe frowns sternly at her and shakes his head, looking down at his plate.

 

Luli giggles. Swallows. Dembe’s fighting another smile, but he refuses to lift his head and give her the satisfaction.

 

They’re almost finished by the time the phone rings. Dembe excuses himself with a nod, a habit Luli still finds a bit unnecessary. She never really had a family table, somewhere everyone gathered at the same time. Even when she’d lived at home, no one had much cared when she left a room.

 

She hears him answer the phone, knock at the bedroom door. If there’s a response from within she’s too far away to catch it, but it’s quiet enough in here that she’s able to make out the turning of the knob as he opens the door and enters a moment later. She stretches her neck, trying to get a look into the living room from where she’s sitting.

 

“Alex,” an upbeat voice comes booming from the other room, “so _good_ of you to finally call.”

 

Her view is limited to the slice of wall she can see through the doorway; she gives up and turns back to the table. Luli eats the last bite of her burger. Licks the ketchup off her fingers. She pictures Dembe shaking his head at her again, gesturing to her napkin.

 

“Yes, they’re truly lovely,” she hears Raymond say. He’s moving around in the living room now. “I think you’ll be very happy. A worthy addition to your exquisite collection.”

 

She looks again toward the doorway; Dembe’s still in the other room too. Luli runs her finger through the streak of ketchup clinging to her plate. Sticks her finger back in her mouth and sucks it clean. She sees no point in adhering constantly to the table manners he keeps trying to instill if there’s no one around to see it.

 

Raymond laughs, and the short hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She doesn’t like that laugh. It’s close to his real one, close enough that a lot of people can’t seem to tell the difference. But there’s a note there that she can never help but notice. It means he’s not pleased with something he’s heard.

 

“Of course. A fabulous idea.”

 

Luli wonders if whoever’s on the other end of the phone has any idea that, despite the words, Raymond clearly feels otherwise. She remembers that guy in… Venice, maybe? The one who’d sat there across from them in that café, beaming that stupid grin. It had just gotten wider the longer they talked – he’d only heard the words too, had been swayed by a misleading smile. But to Luli it had been obvious that Raymond was _pissed_. When they’d split up – Raymond and the guy going one direction, while Dembe had firmly escorted her in the other – it had been all she could do not to rail at the idiot, for being so totally oblivious.

 

“Wonderful. I’ll see you then,” Raymond says.

 

A few moments of silence before Raymond enters the dining room; he’s still got the phone in his hand. He gives it to Dembe, who comes in right behind him. If she didn’t know better, it would be difficult to connect this man with the voice she heard on the phone. His movements are fatigued and slow, and he catches the corner of a tall side table with his hip when he misjudges the distance in passing. The flower vase on top teeters as the table wobbles in protest.

 

Raymond disappears into the kitchen. Dembe follows. “A party,” she hears Raymond explain, a frown riding his words. “One that he’s fairly insistent I attend.”

 

They come back into the dining room, but Raymond stops just inside the doorway and leans against the wall. He’s sipping from a glass of water; she can see him from the corner of her eye. Luli stays facing the table, folding and refolding the cloth napkin in her lap. Sometimes if she remains where she is, they seem to overlook her presence for a time. Long enough for her to grab enough pieces of the conversation to make something of a picture of what’s going on.

 

“Perhaps it would be wise to reschedule, Raymond.”

 

“You’ve met Acevedo. The man is positively _poised_ to throw a tantrum at the slightest offense. He hates when people change his plans.”

 

“Another buyer then.”

 

A motion in her peripheral vision that she translates to a shake of his head. “No, better to get this done tonight.” He pushes himself off the wall. “I need a shower,” he says, handing Dembe the glass of water. “And a plus one.”

 

She’s openly watching him now. She can’t miss the smile he gives her. “Luli, my dear. How would you like to go to a party?”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Raymond pats her gloved hand, where it sits on the backseat between them. Through the windshield, Luli can see a line of expensive cars waiting along the long driveway leading up to the house. “This won’t take long,” he says, his eyes on their destination. “Stay close to me, and everything will be fine.”

 

A rule she’s come to live by. She wants it on a t-shirt.

 

They pull up in front of the house, and Raymond dabs at his temples with his handkerchief. Luli sees Dembe’s eyes narrow in the rear view mirror. “It would be better if I went with you,” he says from the front.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Raymond laughs. “You’d never fit into that dress.”

 

Dembe’s not amused. They stare each other down in the mirror.

 

“You know how Acevedo feels about other people’s security,” Raymond finally says. “Luli here will put him in a much more agreeable mood.”

 

More staring, Dembe appearing unconvinced. Luli looks out the window at the huge columns framing the front door, already sure who’s going to win this. Her nerves battle with her excitement, sending a tingling over her arms.

 

When Dembe refuses to move, Raymond opens his own door and gets out of the car. He circles around the back to her side, opening her door and holding out a hand. She takes it, appreciating the way her small fingers in their black satin look against his skin. He helps her out of the car to stand beside him. She wishes she could get a picture like this, her in her dress and him in his tuxedo.

 

Dembe joins them now; Raymond pointedly ignores him. “You look radiant, my dear,” he tells her. “I’ll be the envy of every man in there.”

 

It helps; she’s trying really hard not to feel like a little girl playing dress-up in her big sister’s clothes. Living on the streets she’d had no use for fashion, stylish clothes. No money to go shopping. It had never been something she’d been interested in, simply because she didn’t let herself think about it. Easy enough, when she’d never had the experience to miss. Now there was the money, sometimes, but when you’re constantly on the move, you can’t exactly build up a wardrobe. And years of living without have left her with simple tastes. All of her clothes fit into a suitcase, comfortable and functional and multipurpose.

 

Except for this dress she’s now wearing, bought for a night of dinner and theatre in Paris. A costume worn only that once. A basic flattering shape, one that doesn’t attempt to highlight curves she doesn’t yet have. It shimmers when she shifts positions – her favorite thing about it. She’d stood in front of the mirror for almost twenty minutes, back at the apartment, trying to find herself under all the paint and sparkle. Trying to convince herself that she doesn’t look like a kid in clown makeup.

 

Luli reminds herself to stand up straight. _Come on. Act like you’re better at being a “girl_. _”_

 

“Raymond…” Dembe starts. Raymond gives him a dark look. Without warning, Dembe grabs his arm, above the elbow where he’d been rubbing at it earlier. She hears Raymond’s breath hitch; he scowls, but doesn’t pull away.

 

“I’m not going to argue this with you,” he says to Dembe through his teeth.

 

Dembe breaks the contact first, dropping his hand then his eyes. She sees the anger fade from Raymond’s face as he watches him, thinks he might say something else. Dembe’s still looking at the sidewalk when Raymond reaches into the backseat instead, retrieving the hard-shelled case he’d brought with them.

 

He turns to Luli, offering her his other arm. “Shall we?”

 

Luli loops her arm through his, enjoying the way his body heat combats some of the chill clinging to her bare shoulders. She tries to catch Dembe’s eye, but he’s already getting back into the car.

 

“Just let me do all the talking,” Raymond tells her, as they reach the looming front door.

 

The entry hall is big and bright and seemingly filled with people. On second glance, it’s not quite as crowded as she’d thought, mostly bodies in transit between the rooms on either side. Raymond steers them through a doorway into a wide open space, a ballroom lined with windows. He surveys the mingling people as they cross the room; Luli focuses on not tripping in her unfamiliar shoes. They eventually stop near the bar, next to the glass doors that lead out into the garden.

 

Strings of twinkling lights stretch out into the darkness, reaching their fingers into the shadows. She wishes she was out there. She feels too exposed under the illumination of this ridiculously large chandelier.

 

Raymond picks up two glasses of champagne from the end of the bar, hands her one. “Smile,” he says, his rumbling voice only loud enough to be heard by her. “Try not to look as if I’m keeping you here against your will.” His own smile is sunny, a patently fake example. Luli mimics it, the expression feeling somehow foreign to her face.

 

She takes a sip of the champagne, and all of the moisture instantly leaves her mouth. She doesn’t understand this, what with it being a liquid itself. Luli has another drink, feels the bubbles tickle down her throat. Beside her, Raymond watches the crowd. His forced smile not coming close to his eyes.

 

They stand there for a while, the music swelling and ebbing around them. She can sense Raymond’s growing impatience, but there’s little she can do. Luli’s attention aimlessly wanders about the room. She’s fascinated by all these women who seem so elegant and comfortable in their own skin.

 

Raymond moves a few steps away from her, toward the cute guy working behind the long bar; Luli reminds herself again to stand up straight. She sees Raymond slip a bill into the tip jar, turning his smile on the younger man. “You look _terrifically_ busy,” he says, this guy’s new best friend. “I’ve never understood how a person can keep track of what’s in all those drinks. So many ingredients.” He shakes his head. Seemingly baffled.

 

The bartender grins. “You pick it up pretty quick. Most people order the same things anyway.”

 

Now Raymond’s nodding. He looks completely fascinated, and Luli has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop a giggle. She takes another sip from the glass in her hand, her nose wrinkling as she swallows. She doesn’t think she likes champagne.

 

“Still. You must have a _wonderful_ memory.”

 

The guy shrugs. “Not bad.” He leans in a little, like they’re sharing a confidence. “People like it when you already know what they’re drinking. Makes them feel special.”

 

Raymond laughs. “A man who knows the tricks of his trade. Tell me…”

 

“Mike,” the bartender supplies.

 

“Mike. Have you seen our host at all tonight, Mike?”

 

“No, sir. But this isn’t the only party I’ve worked here. He usually doesn’t come down for the first few hours of these things.”

 

Raymond doesn’t look surprised. In one fluid motion, he slides another bill into the tip jar while setting his full glass down on the bar. “Thank you, Mike. I hope you enjoy the rest of your night.”

 

“Thank you, sir. Can I get you something else to drink?”

 

“Oh no, I think I’ve had quite enough.” Raymond returns to Luli’s side, back to the case waiting patiently by her feet. He pinches the bridge of his nose, his words muttered. “He always does this. No idea why I still work with the man.”

 

His hand falls, and he frowns at the oblivious guests. She almost pokes him in the side and tells him to smile.

 

She isn't going to risk it. She wonders what Dembe's doing, while he's waiting in the car. Luli gets a sudden mental image of his frame shoved into her black dress; she snorts, a decidedly unladylike sound. Raymond gives her a sidelong glance, but he looks away again before she can offer an explanation.

 

Luli remembers that night in Paris well, a treat even inside this new life that’s swept her up. One of her favorite parts – above the show, the food, the unending flood of sensations from being immersed in a whole new world – had been Raymond’s hilarious running fashion commentary, catty judgment from on high to amuse her as they sat in their theatre box.

 

She misses it now, wants to point out a few candidates. He’s too quiet, fuming beside her. He’s sweating a little, the warmth that had felt so good earlier still radiating off him despite the cool breeze wafting in from the door to curl around her ankles. She wonders what’s in the case. What they’re doing here.

 

“I need some air,” Raymond growls, grabbing the case and heading for the garden. A heartbeat later, Luli scurries after him. The champagne almost spills as the thin glass tips dangerously in her hand; not knowing what to do with it, she sets it on the windowsill as she passes.

 

He’s sitting on a stone bench just outside the door, looking up at the glittering sky. She joins him, the stone cold against the back of her legs. She thinks about that night in the park. Pictures him in the familiar fedora.

 

It seems Raymond’s reminiscing as well. “I’m so glad you decided to come with us, that day,” he says after a while, over the chirp of the crickets, He’s still watching the stars. “Do you ever regret it?”

 

Luli blinks. The aftertaste of the champagne coats her tongue. “No. ‘Course not.” She doesn’t know where this is coming from. Why he feels he needs to ask.

 

The smile he gives her still looks too thoughtful, something unresolved lurking behind it. But it’s sincere. And she doesn’t have the words yet to delve. A moment later, the background hum of the party is broken by a disjointed cheer. Raymond’s eyes leave her face, flicking toward the windows to see what’s happening inside.

 

“Stay here,” he tells her. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

 

He leaves her on the bench with the case, and vanishes back into the house. Luli twists around to try and find him in the mess of window-framed people. She doesn’t get so much as a glimpse.

 

She turns back to the stars instead. She’s always strangely surprised to look up and see the usual shapes in different places. Sometimes dimmer, sometimes brighter, depending on how many city lights surround them. She’s never sure where the familiar constellations are going to be, but every time her brain seeks them out first.

 

Ten, maybe fifteen minutes trickle by. Raymond steps outside, closes the short distance between them. He looks annoyed. Luli stands up.

 

“Come on,” he says. He bends to pick up the case. Overbalances and has to catch himself with a stiff arm against the bench. Luli’s unprepared for the speed of this; she reaches out instinctively to grab him. Her hand lands just above his elbow, and he hisses at her. She instantly relocates her grip to further up his bicep.

 

“Are you okay?” It springs reflexively from her concern. She’d forgotten there was no point in asking.

 

“I feel dreadful,” he admits quietly, shocking her with his honesty. But now he closes his fingers around the case’s handle, straightens up. Mask in place, complete with false smile. “But I’m fine. We have an appointment.”

 

She takes his arm again, and they follow a path winding through the greenery that tracks along the house’s walls. Raymond says nothing else. Luli wonders what’s wrong with him.

 

Knives. Fever. Infection.

 

A somber, dark-suited man opens another glass door to let them back into the house somewhere on another side of the building. They enter an empty library, stretching shelves illuminated by a fireplace’s flickering flames. An orderly desk sits by its wide mouth. Raymond gestures to one of the chairs sitting in front it.

 

Luli lowers herself into it carefully, smoothing her dress out over her legs. Raymond takes the one beside her. She peers at the tall narrow ladder waiting against one stack of shelves. It looks like it has wheels attached. She imagines riding it around the perimeter of the room, pulling out books at random. All of those books in the walls, piled on the floor.

 

Raymond runs his handkerchief across his forehead, tucks it back away. She doubts the extra heat in here is doing anything to improve his mood. His toe taps impatiently into the carpet.

 

“Maybe Dembe was right,” says a voice that sounds a lot like hers. “Why couldn’t we just do this another time?”

 

He frowns at her. The skin under his eye twitches. “Dembe’s ideas of what’s best for me don’t always coincide with what’s best for my business.” The sound of the door opening behind them. “Now keep quiet,” he adds, standing to face their host.

 

She pretends like this last bit doesn’t sting.

 

“Alex.” Raymond’s smile is broad and welcoming, as if he were the one at home here. His hand reaching out between the two of them. “It’s been too long, as always.”

 

Acevedo’s face echoes his grin. They shake hands firmly. “Raymond Reddington. The man who can always find me what I’m looking for.”

 

They move back to the chairs, the other man’s eyes locking on to Luli as he rounds the desk to sit opposite them. “I see you’ve been doing some collecting of your own,” Acevedo leers, not at all hesitant at looking her over. Luli’s eyes fall to the edge of the desk.

 

“The lovely Lila,” Raymond says, without missing a beat. She’s glad she’s already looking downward, so as not give any unintentional reaction to the alias. “One of a kind, I assure you.”

 

“I don’t doubt it.”

 

Luli can feel his gaze on her. She can’t will herself to lift her head.

 

Raymond sets the case onto the desk between them, directly in Acevedo’s line of sight. “What you were looking for,” he explains pleasantly. “The man that found them for me was particularly reluctant to see them go.”

 

Acevedo's focus is effectively shifted; he looks to Raymond for permission before touching the case. At his nod, Acevedo pops the clasps with his thumbs, opening it with a slow reverence. Nestled in foam inside are two porcelain ballerinas, their delicate skirts frilly and full. They’re certainly beautiful, but not what she was expecting. She doesn’t really know what she thought was going to be in there. Still she never would have guessed it would be this.

 

“Oh Raymond, they’re beautiful,” he says, clearly thrilled. Luli’s thinking this whole business thing actually seems pretty easy. Until Acevedo’s eyes slide back over to her. “Though perhaps not as –“

 

Raymond’s voice cuts smoothly through the sentence. “Dresden figurines. Something of a misnomer, really, as they were originally made in Meissen.” He offers this explanation solely to Luli, as if Acevedo were no longer in the room. He points to one of the ruffled tutus. “This is the technique that made them famous. The use of real lace to shape the skirts. _Amazing_ attention to detail.”

 

He looks up at Acevedo now. “Terribly difficult to find them these days with the lace still intact. Or so I’m told.”

 

He waits, as if this is a question. As if he’s interested in the answer.

 

A muscle jumps in the hard line of Acevedo’s jaw. “Yes.”

 

Luli returns her attention to the figurines, yet another silent conversation playing out above her head. She can feel how tense Raymond is beside her, even if he gives no outward sign. When Acevedo reaches into his pocket and removes an envelope instead of a knife or a gun, Luli realizes she should probably be grateful that they’re not being stabbed or shot at more often.

 

He hands it across the desk. “What we agreed upon.” Raymond takes the envelope, barely glancing at it before slipping it into his jacket. She hopes this Acevedo guy knows that you don’t cross Raymond Reddington without him eventually finding you. Whatever he knows, though, he doesn’t seem to be very good at taking a hint; Luli almost laughs in disbelief when his eyes roam over her body again. “There could be more,” Acevedo says, a slippery promise. “A bonus.”

 

A chill runs through her now, freezing her in its wake. She’s holding her breath. Not because she thinks there’s any possibility of Raymond handing her over, but because she has absolutely no idea what he might do. She doesn’t want to run in these shoes.

 

A battle waged through eye contact. Mapped in the tight lines of his face.

 

“Charming,” Raymond finally says, without any inflection. Luli gets to her feet as he does, exhaling carefully so as not to attract any more attention to herself. Raymond rests his hand on her lower back. “But we’ll be leaving now. Lovely party. We can see ourselves out.”

 

He ignores the now standing Acevedo, the man’s offered hand. Directs her to the doors they came in. “The garden, I think. I’ve always been an admirer of a well-trimmed topiary.”

 

He guides her outside and back down the path; she can feel the gentle press of his palm against her spine, the outline of his fingers. Their route around the house seems to stretch longer in this direction. The chill of the air is pleasant after the warmth of the fire, filled with the sweet scent of something night-blooming. They’re well away from the library when he stops her.

 

“I’m sorry,” Raymond says, chewing the inside of his lip while he studies her face. “Alex was even more unpleasant than usual tonight. Are you all right?”

 

Luli knows she’ll be safe as long as she stays close to him. She thinks maybe she could even get into this whole dress-up game. “Sure. I wish you’d let me help more.”

 

Raymond smiles at her, one of the few genuine expressions she’s seen tonight. He takes hold of her hand. Wraps it around his arm. “One of a kind. Let’s go home.”

 

Home. As long as she’s with them, she’ll always know where that is.

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later, they visit the museum. After Luli’s first trip to a shooting range.

 

 

 

 

**end.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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